


Lick Honey From Thorns

by dykonic_fic



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Break Up, Drug Use, Getting Together, M/M, Medieval AU, Misuse of Beholding Avatar Powers (The Magnus Archives), Threesome - M/M/M, Under-negotiated Kink, YES the dread powers still exist, actual smut ch2 (and hopefully onwards), first of all BLASPHEMY IG, fucked up beholding church in the Middle Ages and that's it, historical fiction - Freeform, just weirdly sexually tense ch 1, like in real life this would be horrible practice but its a medieval au of tma not real life, oh yeah trigger warnings, porn with continuity if not really a plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:33:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28297584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dykonic_fic/pseuds/dykonic_fic
Summary: There was a good reason why Jon chose the university over the Church when he was making the decision the first time around. He'd left home when he was sixteen to study, but forced from the halls of learning, unable to bear his job in the town hall any longer, and with no home left to return to, it seemed there was nothing for it. The house of god was the only one that opened its doors to him, so however reluctantly, Jon would do his best and play along for as long as he had to. Or at least for as long as he could.And he had to admit, he really landed on his feet. The bishop needed a scribe, not a new priest, and Jon was a capable writer.So he gratefully accepted the position as director of Albion Monastery's scriptorium, and he wouldn't have to take so much as a vow.All he had to do was work on his translations, and complete His Excellency, Elias', manuscript on time. He even had some assistants to help him. And enough money to rent a room above the tavern in the village.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Elias Bouchard/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Elias Bouchard/Tim Stoker, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker
Comments: 5
Kudos: 25





	1. Idolatry

**Author's Note:**

> I think the official genre of this fic is historical fiction, but I have to be honest, more of this is fiction than historical. I study medieval literature, so I've had to do some research for the facts, and then I've remembered that the fic is set in a Beholding Church and not even vaguely in a real one. 
> 
> However, it's important for me to raise two things;
> 
> I've absolutely drawn on HISTORICAL christian practice, and the ways medieval people responded to an increasingly... esoteric texts. A lot more was on the cards in terms of religious practice, there were a lot of ways to respond. when I say the fic takes place between 1200-1400, I basically mean that I'm going for 1200, but I'm basing a culture of worshiping communion on an account of mass from 1400. Let's just say Elias is ahead of the game when it comes to instilling obsession and terror in his congregation?
> 
> Basically, I'm not trying to talk about modern christian practice or any religious practice at all, I'm just a medievalist who spent too long thinking about history, and I got too interested in medieval ideas of sight/seeing and what it meant to look at a person and be looked at. They were DEEPLY concerned about this.
> 
> Second important thing I want to raise in this preface! It's a medieval au, not a whitewashed au. There is plenty of scope for including characters of colour in a medieval setting, and we have historical evidence for people of colour living in just about every class of European society for about as long as there's been a Europe.
> 
> So, I hope you enjoy this multi chapter medieval au where Jon ends up transcribing documents in a Beholding monastery Elias runs.

1.1

Jon lit another candle and rubbed his eyes. The scriptorium was dim by day, and pitch black by night. The windows were square and high above his writing desk, and they looked down upon him like a pair of cold dark eyes.

Jon averted his gaze and looked back to the parchment. His candle flickered. The words swam, and he put down his quill.

In front of him, the priest reading quietly to the priest writing frantically both halted. Two nervous faces looked at Jon. Jon stared back.

The silence beat down on the three of them, punctuated by the echoing footsteps of the roundsmen, patrolling the monastery for misbehaviour.

‘Well, that’s the end of our day.’ The priest who’d been writing stood up and stretched, trying to look casual. The reading priest leapt out of his chair and stuck by the other’s side. He looked as anxious as they all felt.

Jon nodded.

‘God be with you,’ Tim waved on his way out. Silently, Martin hurried out after him, and Jon finally put his head in his hands and rested like that for a moment, and no longer. The Latin wouldn’t translate itself, and his assistants were… were not helping him make the progress the Abbot was expecting.

He heard footsteps in the corridor behind him, and tried to ignore them. They were for the monks, not for him. He repeated it to himself once more, as the footsteps drew near. He picked up his quill and hastily began to translate from the Latin in front of him.

There was a knock on the door, and he startled. The door opened behind him, and he scrambled around to face the Abbot.

Jon swallowed.

‘Your excellency,’ he began, deferential as he could muster.

‘Jonathon.’

Anything else he could say died in his throat, so he stayed quiet. Elias regarded him coldly, with a slight smile.

Without invitation, Elias dropped to one of the seats next to Jon. A bishop, of course, needed no invitation to sit where he liked, so Jon allowed Elias to peer over at his translations, and fix his glare on the unfinished manuscript.

Jon pressed his knees together, and willed himself to wait until spoken to.

Elias remained silent, and Jon’s heart began to race.

He broke within minutes.

‘Your excellency, progress is being made, and your appointment of assistants has been most welcome, I can’t thank you enough-’

‘I can trust I’ll see you in tomorrow’s mass, Jonathan?’ Elias interrupted.

Jon spluttered. ‘Of course. I- I _am_ Christia-’

‘Excellent. Bring your wax tablet and prepare to take notes. I want to know what it’s like from your side of the altar, so to speak, and I think your perspective might be exactly what I’m after.’

Elias’ eyes creased when he smiled at Jon. His face was pleasant and his tone mild, and yet Jon felt nothing but dread as he promised to make an account of Elias’ mass.

‘One last thing, Jonathon?’ Elias asked as he turned to leave Jon in the scriptorium.

Jon nodded eagerly.

‘I hope you can write faster than you have been. I believe my masses are… rather lively, and it’s crucial that you keep up. Can you do that, Jon?’

And stupidly, Jon said yes.

Elias smiled once more. ‘I expected nothing less.’

And Jon’s heart raced until it was time to blow out the candles, leave his manuscript in the scriptorium, and allow the roundsmen to escort him out to the front gate of Albion Monastery.

  
  


1.2

Tim followed Martin into the chapel, and watched as he knelt before the great statue of Mary, behind the altar. It was early morning, the dawn had barely broken, but the few lit candles reflected on gilt walls and ceilings.

Once Tim shut the door shut behind them, it was like a summer evening, resplendent and golden, warm light landing softly in the room.

But it was cold in the chapel. Gold and metal and sparkling jewels could not warm the winter, only brighten it. And Martin continued to pray.

‘You can stop pretending now,’ Tim breathed, placing a gentle hand on Martin’s shoulder.

He brushed it off like he was wounded, and mouthed the words with a hysterical desperation. Tim frowned.

‘Martin?’ He whispered. He had to be quiet, the doors were thick and heavy, but sound carried, and another priest could burst in at any moment. Burst in to pray, like they were meant to be doing. Like Martin was pretending to be doing.

‘Martin? I just think we should talk-’

‘You should go.’

He didn’t even turn to look at him, and Tim could not look away. Knelt there, the picture of perfect devotion, Martin was as unreachable to Tim as the idol he praised. Just more set dressing, and Tim wanted to pull him out of the scene and restore him to the person he loved.

The person he’d taken these vows with, who he’d given up on mortal life with, the person he decided to love in the secrecy of the monastery forever more.

‘I don’t understand.’ He said. 

Martin didn’t move.

‘Why do you want me to go?’

He couldn’t answer.

‘You still love me.’ Tim’s voice was a whisper, but the sound rippled through the perfumed air.

On his knees, Martin could only sink a little lower, but when he collapsed from his standing kneel, Martin went from praying to begging.

‘Of course I do,’ Martin told the floor.

‘So-’

‘So leave anyway. I love you, Tim, I don’t think I can stop. But we’re not safe. We’re being watched.’

Tim laughed, shallowly. ‘By who? Nobody knows about us here, we’re practically anonymous!’

Martin shuddered, and when Tim instinctively put an arm around him, Martin leaned into Tim’s side. 

‘Talk to me, Martin. I need to understand.’

‘I-’ Martin whispered. ‘I can’t-’

Tim found Martin’s hand and held it in his own. ‘Please.’

Martin cried quietly, for fear of being heard, and Tim pressed his cheek to the crown of Martin’s head. They faced the insensible statue, and knew that it meant nothing to them. 

‘It- it’s got worse? I didn’t notice it at first, I mean, but it’s got worse as long as we’ve been here, and then it just suddenly-’

‘Martin, what got worse? Is it something I’ve-’

‘No.’ Martin sighed, squeezing Tim’s hand. ‘Not you.’

Tim waited for him, and brushed his hand through Martin’s curls. He’d always been glad this monsastary didn’t mandate tonsure, it seemed so vain, but Martin was so beautiful, and the thought of never sitting with him like this again, carding his fingers through his hair, feeling Martin next to him, the very thought opened a chasm Tim didn’t know how to live with.

‘I… I know we’re being watched.’ Martin steeled himself to say. Tim said nothing. It hurt to speak.

‘Something’s looking down on us, and it knows us… It knows what we’re doing, it knows that I love you, and _I love you_ , so I have to- I have to protect you from that. It’s the only way.’

Tim stopped his hand, but didn’t move it. ‘So that’s it then. The… the praying, and the reading, and the liturgy. It’s got to you?’

He loved Martin, but he wasn’t meant to get caught up in it all, they were meant to ride the currents out and make the life they could together, right in the eye of the storm.

But Martin started to laugh, quietly, and it chilled Tim.

‘What?’ He pushed, already upset.

Martin pushed himself off the floor, out of his worshipful position, and lay on his side, like how he would when he and Tim stayed up at night talking as quietly as they could about anything they wanted.

Tim smiled, for just a second certain that Martin would tell him he was joking, and then Tim would swat at his shoulder and tell him never to scare him like that again, to never hold their futures in the balance like that.

But Martin didn’t look at him. He looked at the floor, stone and cold and impassive.

‘I said _something_ was watching us. I never said it was God.’

Tim tensed, put his hands up to put them on Martin’s shoulders, but Martin took his hands in his.

Tim hadn’t believed in much his whole life long. He believed he loved men, he did not believe in God, he believed in himself, and he did not believe in the whole world around him. He didn’t believe what Martin was saying. 

‘I’ll be seeing you around, Martin.’ He stood up, and looked at the man he loved, lying at his feet, ignoring all the idols and the gilt crucifixes and the thousands of open stone eyes just to look up at Tim, and at Tim alone.

‘It’s not like there’s anywhere to go, here.’

  
  


1.3

Jon pulled at his sleeves when he was anxious. They were long, heavy, and finely woven so he did his best not to pick at the threads. But he was nervous. Jon had not been to church in years. 

The city was large enough that no one exactly cared if they didn’t see his face at mass. He didn’t show it much outside of the town hall, where he transcribed legal documents day in, day out. 

It didn’t surprise him that he took the job, even if it was in a monastery. He couldn’t bear the law, and he wanted nothing more to do with it.

But standing out in front of Albion Cathedral, trying to keep his distance from the buzzing, chattering parish, Jon began to reconsider.

Though the cathedral was great, and imposing, and though its towers struck out against the grey midday sky, Jon could go. He could slip away, take a carriage back to Oxford and return to the town hall, copy law forever more.

He resolved himself just as the bell for mass began to ring. Unlike the hourly chimes, the bell for Sunday mass did not cease. The noise was loud, and unending, and everyone around him was unperturbed. 

More swarmed to the church’s unopened doors, more and more, and it seemed to Jon that all the world was here, and he was swept up with them. The bells rang on, the sound vibrating through his teeth, through his skull, and when the doors finally opened, he pushed in just to get out from under the great bell tower. 

As did everyone else. The great rush forward was one that everyone else had been doing for years, and Jon was elbowed out of the way until he elbowed back, fought his way through the door, and quickly found a seat on the filling pews.

He unfolded his wax tablet and first wrote, ‘rowdy.’

Then he took in the church. Though the monastery was lavish, he had not paid a visit to the church itself. He dedicated a few sentences to the tall, endless ceilings, carved and decorated and glittering against the golden chandeliers, all lit, and the lines of burning torches studding the aisle down to the raised stage, the sanctuary, separated from the church hall by a veil. Behind the veil there was the altar, draped in silk, and behind that, the bishop, Elias, stood waiting to begin mass.

Jon took notes quickly, but it was difficult. The church was anything but quiet. The whole town of Albion crammed into the space filled it with chatter and gossip. The atmosphere was of tense anticipation, and everywhere Jon looked, he could see a new narrative. He wrote a sentence for the couple who began to argue, for the children next to them who began to wail there in the church; they went unnoticed by all but Jon, and he soon cast his eye to the merrymaking at the back of the hall. He wasn’t sure whether they were drunk or soon to be, but the small group of men seemed to get bigger as more revellers joined in with the singing and loud, loud laughter. 

The clamour rose even as the music began, the reverberating bass of the great organ trembled through the air as the conductor struck up the choir, their voices so impossibly high and cutting, yet they still could not cut through the dull and impenetrable sound of conversation. Yet Elias sermonised. He sermonised uselessly in Latin, the liturgy fell on deaf ears for they didn’t understand. This was for Jon, and he didn’t care.

Or, he didn’t care for the word of god, but god was not speaking to him. The bishop, Elias, was.

The words rhymed, the rhythm fell in with the organ, the meaning foul to Jon who did not care for this or any other scripture, but the sound was undeniable. Even from behind the veil, Elias’ voice bounced off the vaulted ceiling and it was loud in Jon’s ear.

Jon could pick out every word, until around him, the parish began to move. 

They became unstuck from their seats and moved freely from the pews. Broken from their regiments, the crowd became fluid running over the stone floors, drowning the mass, the word, the song, all under the weight of human nature.

And Jon scratched that into the wax with surprise. 

A great bell tolled, and at the altar, Elias raised a small, pale disc up into the air. 

The parish rushed forward all at once, clawing at the curtain separating them from the body of Christ. Their wails found accord with the choir, singing on impervious. The thick veil bounced and rippled, and Jon was sure that they would push through and rip the bread from the bishop’s hands.

Yet he persisted calmly, spoke the words, and held the body of Christ up high, as Jon noted without looking away, transfixed by the scene. Elias clearly felt safe behind the veil. Jon wouldn’t.

Elias began to lower the bread, and the crowd became frantic. On the far left and right of the sanctuary, two more priests had set up plain tables and stood behind them. The mass of people grew quiet, waiting, when finally the priest at the left rang a bell and drew all the parish to his side. And they ran, sprinting, and when they reached the priest they fell to kneeling when he raised another piece of bread in his hands.

The only one in the church still seated, Elias looked at Jon. Jon was struck terrified, knowing that he was appalled by what he saw, a town of sensible people running around the church to worship a piece of bread. He knew himself well enough to know that he could not possibly reign in his horror.

And Elias smiled softly. 

Jon began to laugh, relieved and afraid in equal measure. 

But Elias held his gaze, his face remained inquisitive, and Jon decided that it was alarming to be singled out from a crowd the size of a town. Jon decided that the heat in his cheeks was embarrassment, and still Elias did not release Jon from his stare.

He didn’t want to linger on the growing warmth in his face the longer Elias looked. He didn’t want to feel the connection to the man on the stage, responsible for the repulsive demonstration of acolytic worship all around him.

Jon swallowed, became more afraid, but Elias’ mild smile did not waver, even as he reached out and beckoned Jon to the altar.

Jon felt weak. If asked, he would promise that he couldn’t stand and that he wouldn’t go. 

Yet, he did. He walked all the way up the aisle as if entranced, and stopped at the veil. He looked beseechingly up at Elias, high on the stage above him. The priest on the right crossed the sanctuary to the middle, before Jon, and opened a panel of the veil, quickly dragged Jon through, closing up the seam before the parish noticed and burst through. 

Then the priest seemed to melt back into the shadows at the edge of the sanctuary, and only a few steps and the altar stood between Jon and the bishop. 

Hearing the roar of the crowd at his back, Jon strode towards Elias, almost leaping up the steps in his haste.

‘Your excellency?’ He heaved, terrified of standing here, on the stage, under the torchlight of the sanctuary in front of the whole parish, _it might as well be the world, and everyone could see him-_

‘Are you enjoying the mass?’ Elias asked casually, like he’d simply wandered into the scriptorium. Like this was time for conversation.

‘No!’ Jon shouted before he could stop himself. ‘It’s horrible! I- I hate it.’

Elias nodded, almost understandingly, Jon thought, before remembering Elias’ position, Elias’ role in this twisted mess of sick devotion.

‘Lean forward, Jon,’ Elias commanded, but Jon faltered. 

‘Y-your excellency?’

‘This altar is only a table, Jon, and there’s a cloth down and everything. Just do as I say,’ he sighed, and Jon placed his hands down on the woven gold cloth. 

‘Why?’ Jon asked, the only question there was.

‘Because it is sweet.’

Jon nodded, leaning forward a little. Then caught himself. 

‘What?’

Elias lifted a silver chalice up from the altar and swirled it.

‘The mead is sweet, made of honey. Try it. You might actually appreciate it. _They_ only acknowledge the taste when they believe it is the blood of a god. Why should it be? How sweet can the blood of a dead god be? They worship what is senseless and they pool their senses with the dead thing itself, deadened to what is actually sweet.’

He plucked Jon’s hand from the altar, pressed his knuckles to his lips. The world dimmed to just this kiss.

‘You, though, you are alive. We are _living_ men, Jon, what good is a dead god to us?’

Jon opened his mouth to answer, but he was struck, just too struck, as Elias kissed his hand fervently, apparently infatuated and incapable of caring for the screaming worship beneath them.

‘Am I to tear my eyes from your perfect body and fix my gaze on some tortured stone? No, Jonathon, I worship the living, not the dead.’

Jon shuddered with pleasure under his touch, and leaned in for more, leaning in as far as he could. Just as Elias asked.

Well within reach now, Elias slowly reached out and pressed the rim of the chalice to Jon’s lip. Elias kept Jon’s hand to his lips as he held the chalice to Jon’s, tipping the chalice back, pouring the mead carefully into his mouth.

Elias tilted the cup farther and farther back, appreciating the line of Jon’s throat and the way Jon’s hand tightened to a fist on the table as he tried to keep his balance, the way he held on to Elias' hand for strength. 

Feeling the chalice drained, Elias pulled it away and put it on the table and pulled Jon back to him.

‘You’ll have me drunk, your excellency,’ Jon mumbled, failing to flatten the curve of his lip into a straight line. 

‘I rather doubt it,’ Elias promised. ‘It is not so strong, and the visions are usually weak.’

‘Visions?’ He asked, hearing the crowd stampede behind him. 

‘Oh yes, Jonathan, our church is renowned for visions. You will see.’ He sounded excited, and Jon began to dread. 

He had been grateful for the wine, he needed the edge off, _but_ _he could not afford to lose his own edge, not in front of Elias, and not in front of all these people._

‘They don’t know you’re here,’ Elias murmured. ‘They’re ignorant.’

‘Ignorant to what?’

Elias’ grin was wicked. 

‘To you, certainly. To the whole world, for the most part. They walk around, lives lived in wait for Heaven. They wouldn’t know it if they saw it. They close their eyes to the whole world for fear that they may lose their place in the next. Their god is invisible, cannot be seen and cannot see. Their god doesn’t know them, and they don’t know anything.’

The edges of the sanctuary were beginning to curl, and Jon began to sweat.

‘You’ll show them, Jon.’

_He wouldn’t show them anything, they weren’t capable of understa- he, he wasn’t even meant to be here, he wasn’t meant to be on stage, this was a horrible, horrible, decision, and he wasn’t even writing, he was meant to be writing, he was only meant to observe, he didn’t mean to-_

The words were pouring out, and Elias suddenly seized the front of Jon’s bliaut, taking a fistful of the loose fabric. The shock of it stopped Jon’s stream of words, and Elias pulled him forward.

But there was nowhere to go. He fell bent in half over the altar, the relief of the carving on its side stuck against his thighs, and that’s when Jon got the idea. 

‘No, no way-’ Jon looked up at Elias and shook his head. ‘I- I can’t! Your excellency, you can’t-’

But Jon did not exactly respect the altar any more than a table, and Elias’ tug was insistent. 

‘They might get angry-’ Jon warned, talking about the crowd.

‘You’ll be safe here.’ He promised.

Jon took a deep breath and propped himself up on his shoulders.

‘If you’re certain, your excellency.’ 

Jon pulled a knee up onto the surface of the altar, rumpling the spun gold cloth. He looked up, suddenly inches from Elias’ riveted face.

The racket of the crowd died like a snuffed candle. 

Jon realised he’d made a terrible mistake. But Elias lifted him up and onto the altar. His foot left the floor and he held onto Elias and screwed his eyes shut as the very air throbbed in the sudden silence.

Elias cradled him in his arms for a minute, or two, or for a century, until Jon’s heart stopped thudding so desperately against Elias’ chest.

‘What are they going to do?’ He asked Elias, as quietly as he could.

‘Turn around and see for yourself.’

Jon would never be that brave. 

But it would only take him a few more moments to be sufficiently curious.

It was that silence in the end, the quelled noise still ringing in his ears. Still terrified and waiting for the crowd to explode, rush forward and pull him from the altar and crush him, Jon turned ever so slightly on his shaking hands and knees until he was sitting on the altar and looking out at the parish at worship.

Because that’s what he saw when he looked out into the church hall. From front row to the very, very back, each and every person in the town of Albion now sat in rows, calm and looking so intently at the sanctuary.

‘No, Jon. They’re looking at you.’ Elias whispered in his ear.

Jon looked from them to Elias. His eyes caught the torch light and seemed to burn green and bright, two twin fires shining on Jon. He should have been frightened. He should have been frightened.

Jon touched Elias’ face, his fingertips skimmed Elias’ cheek, and Jon saw himself from outside of himself. 

He gasped, and then relaxed. The vision was not of himself. It was of a god. 

He was bejeweled, teardrop jade stones cascaded through his hair, winking and glittering from between the dark waves. He was draped in gold, swathes of it, clasped together with jewels at his shoulders. On his fingers, winding up his arms, fine gold chains dotted with almond shaped emeralds blinked against his brown skin. 

The god shifted uncomfortably upon the altar, catching the light and shining, and Jon felt the jewels in his hair, the clothes on his body, the cool metal against him. The god gasped, put his hands to his face. The stars fell from his fingers and the god seemed to sneer.

The god closed his fingers around a gem in his hair and Jon felt it between his fingers.

‘What is this?’ Asked the god.

‘I am showing you what you could be,’ Elias told him, but Jon couldn’t see him. The god turned his head from side to side, searching, and Jon heard Elias laugh.

‘Where are you?’ He plainted.

‘I’m kneeling before you. You see yourself through my eyes.’

Jon saw his hand lifted, felt Elias’ kiss against his palm. His cheek against the god’s thigh. Jon looked up and saw his own onyx eyes blaze down at him. 

‘It’s only a vision, like a dream. I can make it come true. Is this what you want?’

The god bit his lip and tried to restrain himself from moving under the touch on his hand, on his thigh.

‘Looked at and looking, beholding and beholden, your gaze reaches out and touches the world. In turn, you are touched. You are not an idol, empty and hollow, you are a _living_ god, a _real_ god.’

‘I- I can’t be,’ the god protested. His eyes began to spark.

‘You can, Jonathon. Look at them, look at how they worship.’

The god’s eyes burned bright, and Jon could no longer see the god but his followers, hundreds of them stuck still and looking. Jon couldn’t move under the force of their thousand-eye stare.

Elias, facing him, still knelt before him, pointed out at the crowd.

‘They were lost, Jon, looking for a god in simple objects, small experiences. They lavished their attention on such useless things, anything to receive a speck of the attention doled out on their god. I am their bishop, what am I to do? Leave them lost, looking, searching without end? No. Instead, I find them something living to love, something that can look back at them, someone who can meet their gaze. Is that you, Jon?’

Jon’s breathing was sharp and shallow. He couldn’t even blink. He picked out a single person in the town. They didn’t blink either. All he could see of the person was their eyes. They began to roll up into their head and Jon withdrew his gaze, frightened and… and…

‘You can have this, Jon, the power and the glory, it’s yours.’ Elias urged him.

The silent crowd looked on from the edge of their seats, wound up and ready to bolt. Towards him or away, Jon wasn’t sure. 

‘They look to heaven and there’s nothing there, Jon. They look to you, and you’re in front of them. They can make you, Jon.’

‘Make me what?’

Elias didn’t answer.

‘Make me _what_?’

‘ _Make_ you, my god.’

Jon looked down at the kneeling man and rubbed his thumb over Elias’ cheekbone.

There was a stab of something like hatred when he realised that he shouldn’t, that he should never, that he ought to run screaming to a real church, to a real priest, and beg forgiveness for even thinking of it, for even thinking at all.

‘Do it.’ Jon told him. ‘Make me.’

Elias drew himself up and kissed Jon’s face, and Jon wasn’t afraid of what any of them saw. He stared into the crowd with certainty. Elias withdrew, walked around the altar and stood behind him, one hand on each shoulder.

‘Ceaseless watchers,’ he called to them, and at once, every single member of the town stood to attention. The sound of their feet was a single stamp, echoed to the vaulted ceiling of the chamber.

‘Turn your gaze upon this man.’

‘We turn it to him,’ their voices were one drone, their attention unwavering. 

‘See him for what he is.’

‘We see all.’

Jon wanted to hide.

‘You are beholden.’

There was a green flash of light, and it lit up the church hall. 

‘You are seen, and you are judged, look upon him and know that your gaze is met.’

There was an almighty tearing sound at the next strike of light. Jon’s eyes were aflame, and he could see everything, for a second. Every thought flitted through him, inscribed into him, and he knew everyone there by heart in an instant.

The veil between him and them was eviscerated. There were no more boundaries. For an ecstatic moment, Jon and the Watchers stared into each other without interruption. 

Then Jon collapsed, and fell twitching back onto the altar, unconsciousness a reprieve from awareness’ driving wound.

1.4 

When he came to, he was still on the altar. The painted stars on the ceiling seemed to twinkle. Jon groaned. Elias pressed a cool hand to his forehead, and Jon leaned into it.

‘Well,’ the bishop asked. ‘Did you see anything?’

‘See? Did I-?’ The church hall was dark and silent. Jon sat up and saw that they were alone now. The house of god was nearly empty, but for Jon and Elias. Jon looked at his clothes. They were not gold, but the plainer bliaut he’d put on this morning. 

He remembered everything.

‘I… did.’ He decided to share.

‘I would like you to tell me.’ Elias asked.

Jon nodded. He didn’t know what Elias thought had even happened, but Jon knew it was hardly fit for the church’s records.

‘The devil,’ Jon started, and Elias looked quite earnest. He held Jon’s tablet in his hands, and began to write.

‘What did he look like?’

‘He looked like you.’ Jon told him.

Elias laughed.

‘He looked like you but his eyes were fire.’ Jon amended.

Elias nodded, and took the notes.

‘What did he say?’

‘He… tempted me. Jewels, power and glory… knowledge.’

‘Ah, the original temptation, and perhaps the greatest of all. Supposedly the origin of all sin, and the only means of salvation. Typical, really.’ 

Jon snorted, despite himself.

‘Obviously you refused him.’ 

Jon recognised an out when he saw one and took it.

‘Of course, your excellency.’

‘And then?’

‘Then… I suppose there was a Revelation.’

‘A third of the stars, the beast with six hundred and sixty six heads, the angels with six wings of eyes?’ Elias prompted, writing before Jon could speak. He listened to the metal nib scratch the wax, fancied he could pick out a tune in the sound. He kicked his legs over the edge of the altar, let his one arm drape over the side and traced the carvings with his fingertips.

‘Exactly, your excellency.’

‘Very good. I imagine this church will be the place of a pilgrimage very soon. Most people only ever see the walls breathing, or the halos on the heads of the good people in the church, usually hidden but sometimes revealed at the Lord’s whim. We’ve never been so lucky as to have such a vision in our… humble church. They might make you a saint, Jon.’

‘That’s a downgrade,’ he muttered, so quietly that he thought he may only have said it inwardly. But Elias laughed, so Jon must have spoken aloud.

It was with horror that Jon realised that Elias understood what Jon was joking about. It explained how courteously he provided an alternative vision for Jon to report. 

For a second, Jon doubted that his real hallucination was all it seemed. For less than that, he thought it may have happened.

Jon shook the thought from his head, and then the world shook too. He flinched, and Elias caressed his cheek, concerned.Jon decided that he must have been vocal throughout his hallucination. That Elias had put together the pieces of Jon’s true vision from the things he’d said aloud. His most… mortifying fantasy, his strangest delusion of grandeur.

‘So, how do you do it?’ Jon asked.

‘Do what?’

‘Your excellency, I’m sure you need some… some help to open the parish’s mind.’

Elias stood from kneeling at his side, and pulled Jon up and off the altar.

‘There _are_ certain mushrooms at the edge of Albion forest. These mushrooms can be preserved in honey, and it is of course possible to make mead from honey. I’m sure you can work it out, Jon, but there’s no need to swap recipes when our _visionary_ should probably rest. You might be experiencing these visions for hours to come.’

Jon groaned at the thought, and allowed Elias to half-carry half-drag him to a bed, that when he would awake tomorrow, he would realise was Elias’.

But that night, Jon truly didn’t care where he slept. Elias set him down in the bed.

‘Sleep, now.’ He instructed.

‘Yes, my excellency.’ Jon murmured, eyes closed to the churning world.

‘My god.’

Jon didn’t know whether it was a swear or an acknowledgement, but it brought all those mortifying desires close to him. So he slept, as instructed, and dreamed of burning eyes and the view from the altar, as a god.


	2. Hedonism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps, after all, we are dealing here not with sweetness as a specific category of flavor or taste but simply sweetness as a mode of pleasurable sensation. - Fulton, Rachel.

2.1

Jon peeled open his eyes and rubbed his face. He blinked a few times in the daylight, and then his brain caught up to his exhausted body. He went rigid.

He was meant to see Elias today, convene with him and present his tablet.

He didn’t even remember whether he managed to bring the damn tablet back from mass. He certainly didn’t take it with him, still loopy from the mead as he was.

Worse, he hadn’t quite woken up clear headed. His mind felt stuffed with wool and simultaneously heavy. The world still swam a little as he looked around the room for his tablet, or, anything he recognised, really.

It was with a dawning alarm that Jon realised he had no idea where he was. This was definitely not the room he was renting above the public house. This room was clean, for a start, and no one else was sleeping on the floor or in the bed. 

This was not his room, and Jon was delighted, even as he became more concerned. He stretched out in the bed. He hadn’t slept in something like this since he’d left home, and he wanted a few more seconds at least. 

He sat up and looked around with more urgency this time. Still dressed in yesterday’s bliaut, Jon stood up and his eyes landed immediately on what he was looking for.

Elias had left the wax tablet at his side.

He reluctantly picked it up, frightened of what he might see written there in plain English. But he steeled himself, and unfolded the wooden frame to reveal the two sheets of wax, covered in scribbly writing. Jon sat back down on the bed, impossibly soft to him, and scrutinised it for anything damning, anything unorthodox, and more personally, anything embarrassing.

He was just about to scrape away almost everything written, when there was a knock at the door. Jon didn’t know what to do, this wasn’t his room and he didn’t know who’s it was, he couldn’t just invite anyone in, it wouldn’t be fair.

He didn’t have to make a choice. The door opened anyway.

Elias walked in, and Jon relaxed. Whoever this room belonged to, they couldn’t quarrel with the bishop.

He walked right up to Jon, sitting on the edge of the bed.

‘Did you sleep well last night?’

Jon answered, letting the confusion into his voice and hoping, just hoping, Elias might answer him.

‘Very well, your excellency.’

Elias breathed in deeply, and Jon started to drum his fingers against the wooden frames.

‘Who’s room is this?’ He blurted out when he inevitably broke. ‘I- I- who should I thank?’

He flushed, and tried to look somewhere else. His amendment really wasn’t any better, and as usual, Jon found himself wishing that he just hadn’t spoken.

Elias looked right down his nose at Jon, faintly amused.

‘There’s no need to thank me, Jon, you’re very welcome here.’

Jon nodded, and then he parsed the words. 

‘Wait-’

He felt like leaping out of the bed and dusting the covers down. But he wouldn’t, he would never, so he sat upright and dignified as he could manage when he wanted nothing more than to hide under the covers and start the day again.

But with a wave of his hand, Elias moved the conversation on. ‘Please, I couldn’t have let you walk home in the state you were in, it wouldn’t be right. I slept perfectly well in the living room, so don’t concern yourself further.’

Jon shrugged, refutation on his lips, just willing himself to say he would have been fine, but Elias fixed him with a stare.

‘Well, thank you, then.’ 

They lapsed into silence and Jon felt, rather than saw, Elias observing him. As if waiting for his next move.

The light was bright, streaming in through the narrow window. Jon sighed, before he realised it was the dead of winter.

‘Elias, do you have the time?’

‘You’ve slept right through breakfast, and its quite unlike you to be late. It’s why I thought I’d wake you up.’

He nodded, and got up, stretching his arms up. His long sleeves slipped down his forearms, He caught Elias surveying him, still with no more judgement than he might examine his prayer book, but so much more intently.

Jon crossed his arms, then let them hang by his sides. Elias looked inquisitive, but seemed to hold back on whatever question he had.

‘Thank you for waking me up, your excellency, I can go straight to the scriptorium now and get to work on the translations-’

‘Actually, Jon, I’d like to talk to you about that. Join me for breakfast? It’s always better to talk on a full stomach, I think.’

Elias looked like he was made of wire and filed bones, and Jon somehow found himself doubting Elias had ever eaten a full meal in his life.

‘That’s very kind of you-’

‘Wonderful.’ Elias broke in. ‘This way.’

Jon followed him through Elias’ study, to the larder through a door on the other side.

‘I tend to keep to myself, when I’m not in the monastery.’ He offered by way of explanation for his unusually compact living arrangement.

‘I can see why. It must be overwhelming, sometimes?’

Because Jon wanted him to be a person, sometimes.

He hummed in agreement, and gestured to the wooden table and bench for Jon to sit.

Jon sat, and watched Elias at work on breakfast.

‘I’d have thought you might have servants on hand for this. Isn’t it a bit beneath you, your excellency?’

Facing away, Jon couldn’t see Elias’ face light up with mirth, but he heard his laugh, a single sound. ‘It is!’

Then he thought a little more carefully, revealed a little bit more to Jon. 

‘It is, but it’s just as you say. I find it overwhelming in the monastery, there’s so many people. My own space is… well, it’s my own. I don’t often invite others in. Certainly not servants, the thought of them poking about my business, I frankly find it quite unnerving.’

And then, because he’d kept a close enough eye on Jon to know these things without even trying, he added; ‘But you’re a guest, and that’s quite different.’

‘Oh, um, right.’ 

Elias turned around with a plate in each hand, both piled high with bread, damson plums and shining black berries, ribbons of cured meat and pine nuts. Jon’s stomach growled, and Elias set the plates down, before turning again.

He returned with his hands full, a small plate of butter with a knife perched precariously, and a larger pot of honey. He put them in the middle of the table, and went straight for the honey.

‘I have a sweet tooth,’ he explained again.

Jon polished the plum on his sleeve, and agreed, before slicing the fruit around the stone and popping a half in his mouth.

‘Then you must try the honey, it’s really very good.’

Jon laughed. ‘No, no thank you. Had quite enough of your honey yesterday.’

‘Jonathon, I’m so sorry, I really had no idea it would have such a potent effect on you. No one’s reacted like this before.’

Elias spread it on the bread, and bit into it, while Jon looked on with curiosity.

‘How do you get anything done like that?’

Elias might have choked if he wasn’t careful. He chewed and swallowed, before spluttering, ‘Jon this isn’t the drugged honey!’

‘Oh! Oh no, of course. That- was a bit of a stupid question.’ 

It was too early in the morning for this, but Elias shook his head. ‘No such thing, not when it’s you. You’re wise to check, if anything.’

‘So, what did you want to talk to me about?’ Jon asked, his nerves far, far away. He worked his way around the plate and savoured it, it’d been a long time since he’d eaten so indulgently.

‘I know you haven’t been here long, and I know you’re not exactly part of the order, but-’

‘I’m not taking my vows-’ Jon hurried, blood drained from his face.

‘Married?’ Elias asked, interested. 

‘What, no, I just-’

‘Ah, stupid question, really.’ Elias pointed out wryly, eying Jon’s clothing more overtly. Jon’s own expression was more guarded, now, so Elias went on.

‘I wasn’t going to tell you to join us, I just wondered if you’d accept a greater role in the scriptorium. It might be unprecedented to have a secular Armarius, but you’re more than capable and I believe that’s what really matters.’

Jon was astonished. ‘Your excellency, I can’t thank you enough.’

‘As well as running the scriptorium and its resources, as one of my obedientaries, I’ll be asking you for advice on more than a few matters, too. Are you sure you want to step up to that level of responsibility? I’d love you too, but think about what would make you happy.’

The thought crossed his mind, quickly. ‘I think this… would make me very happy. I’m honoured, I really am.’

Finished spreading more honey on his bread, Elias pushed the jar over to Jon. He reached for it, then withheld.

‘You seem hesitant though. What’s on your mind?’

Jon sighed. ‘My assistants, I suppose. They’re far more integrated within this system, it might be quite… insulting?’

He pushed the honey away, but Elias slid the jar back across to him.

‘Don’t worry about what they think. The job’s yours, if you want it. And actually, the matter of one of your assistants is something I’d like to discuss with you later, if you’re going to take the position.’

Jon’s attention was piqued. ‘Oh?’

‘But of course, it’s confidential information I’m only going to share with my obedientaries, so, it quite depends on whether you’re going to accept the role.’

Jon hesitated, and thought on it. ‘I accept.’

He kept his face neutral, long fingers wrapped around the jar of honey but now distracted from it, lost in thought.

‘Congratulations, Jon! And, please, do try that honey if you want to.’

He spread it on his slice of bread, white and soft and fine, and it tasted divine. He licked the sweetness from his lips and  smiled broadly at Elias, grateful and excited and full of curiosity. He felt vibrant.

‘Thank you, your excellency.’

‘One last thing, Jon.’

Jon sat up straight, serious at once.

‘I’m sure you’ve noticed, but no one else here calls me that. It’s a formality. If we work together this closely, it’ll seem strange to be so formal.’ Elias explained.

Jon nodded. He didn’t know what else to do. Elias smiled, generously.

‘Have you noticed what everyone else here calls me?’ He asked, just edging into condescension, and Jon balked.

‘They call you Father, your excellency, but with all due respect I might prefer formalities.’ 

Elias looked entertained, and like he was waiting for more. He didn’t shift his gaze for a second. Neither did Jon.

‘Your excellency.’ Jon added, as if that was what was missing.

Elias rested his head on his hand, smirked, and tapped his index finger on his jaw in contemplation.

‘Jonathon, let’s make a compromise. It’s appropriate in public, but in general, I’m uncomfortable with so much formality. I’m going to trust you to advise me, we can’t stay on such uneven ground. You’re in my home, at the moment, please, let me make you welcome.’

Jon looked at him with his round, dark brown eyes, shoulders hunched as he leaned forward, elbows on the table, palm cupping his own cheek.

‘Yes,’ Elias continued, ‘I think the first thing that has to change is all this formality.’

Elias’ hand was suddenly close to where Jon’s traced the grain of the wooden table. Elias’ rings shone. Jon flattened his hand on the table before Elias could, and then removed his hand altogether at the thought. He folded his hands in his lap and kept his eyes lowered to the table.

‘And if you are so very averse to calling me Father, then you will simply have to call me Elias.’

Jon’s head shot up, unsure if this was a trap, if this was a test after such a huge opportunity, if Elias already knew he wasn’t and was never going to be able to pretend to conform and wanted to take away what he’d so easily offered.

Elias’ face was open. He looked pleasantly entertained by Jon’s scowl, calmly reassured compared to Jon’s furious struggle to understand what Elias could want out of this conversation.

But Elias could only watch the wheels turn in Jon’s head for so long. He stood up, tightened the cincture at his thin waist, the bright red stripe drawing in the inky black robe. And then he pushed his chair under the table, and walked behind Jon, towards the door.

‘I’ll leave it up to you, Jonathan. You can call me by my name, or you can call me Father, but I cannot hear ‘your excellency’ out of you one more time, at least not when it’s just us. We are both men at work, aren’t we?’

Jon could feel Elias just behind him, and his breath hitched. He nodded, silently.

And then Elias placed his hand on Jon’s shoulder. He held his breath, too tense to move **.**

‘And your work is very good. I haven’t seen anyone who can write so quickly and precisely as you.’

The praise was searing. Jon opened his mouth to speak before he could think, and then was suddenly glad that Elias had more to say, so he could cover whatever inane gratitude might spill out.

‘I need you to meet me here this evening, for our discussion with your assistant. I’ll supply you with another tablet, as well, we’ll need notes to reflect on.’

There was no question about it. Jon nodded, and Elias squeezed his shoulder before turning to leave.

‘Wonderful.’

It was arranged for after evening prayers, and Jon let himself out around noon, finding his way back to the scriptorium for after lunch.

2.2 

Jon tapped his fingers against the wooden frame. Elias had presented him with a wax tablet. He told him to write down everything in the meeting, and Jon was feeling confident. 

A simple meeting could not be more chaotic than the mass.

He stopped his fingers when Elias looked over.

He supposed the meeting started when the monk showed up, but Jon got the feeling he was meant to be writing even now.

There was nothing to note, except that Elias’ own house, the chapter-house, had smaller rooms than any in the monastery itself, even if it was as finely decorated as the chapel. The fireplace in the study was roaring and bright, the corners were lit with a few well-placed candles, beeswax. One of the benefits of keeping bees in the courtyard, Jon assumed.

The fire crackled, the room smelled sweet, Jon sat in a comfortable chair in a well-lit corner of Elias’ study, while Elias waited patiently at his own writing desk.

Jon was tired. His eyelids were drooping, and he resisted that pull to sleep. The cloak around his shoulders was as warm and heavy as a blanket, and he was too tired to take it off. His head nodded, he came unmoored and drifted for a second. 

He jerked his head up, and stole a glance at Elias, hoping he hadn’t noticed.

Elias was staring, and offered Jon a knowing smile.

‘It’s very warm in here.’

Jon murmured some agreement, hot with embarrassment. He longed for the priest to arrive so Elias would focus on something else. Jon hoped he’d be able to pay attention and take accurate notes. He hoped his work would be good.

His eyes fluttered shut, and he knew Elias watched him struggle with drowsiness. Jon tried to stay awake and alert so he didn’t sleep while Elias watched. He couldn’t school his expression into something neutral when he slept. He couldn’t control what Elias saw when he slept.

He hoped Elias was still looking.

The minutes played out, and Jon napped in front of the fire, or stared into it with glazed eyes, or snuck a few glances from the corner of his eye, just to see if Elias was watching. 

Elias was always watching. Jon felt shy, self-conscious and uncertain. The minutes stretched on, and Jon began to feel flattered, curious, and he pushed down the memories of the mass, declaring his fantasies all in bad taste and his hopes wildly misplaced. He stared into the fire and clutched the tablets and the stylus and waited for something to note he could bear to be read.

There was finally a knock at the door, and Jon sat up, startled. He rubbed his eyes, bleary, and sure he was finally out of the spotlight. Elias bid the man behind the door entry, and Tim walked through.

‘Evening, Father.’ Tim greeted, trying to stay neutral. He knew that an audience with the Abbot was either very good news, or very, very bad. 

Elias extended his hand to Tim, who took it casually and kissed the engraved band on Elias’ ring finger. He did it distractedly, just another formality, but a jolt went through Jon. He didn’t think it was worth writing down. It was just a formality.

Instead, he noted that the meeting began.

‘Timothy, I’m sure you’ve noticed but I’d like to point out that Jon, our Armarius will be taking notes today. There’s a few things we’re going to go over that I’d like to review later. 

Tim looked around the room, and found Jon in the only cushioned chair in the room just a little behind him, tucked into an alcove. He bowed his head politely, but otherwise didn’t react to Tim at all. Tim still couldn’t tell which way the wind was blowing, so he said nothing.

‘Are you ready to begin?’ Elias asked them.

Tim swallowed once, and nodded determinedly. ‘I’m ready.’

Elias nodded at Jon, behind Tim, and then he asked Tim a simple question, the scratching of a stylus on wax already taking it down as Elias spoke.

‘Why do you think I’ve asked you here today?’ 

Elias asked, slowly and deliberately, hopefully for Jon’s benefit, and Tim’s breath caught in his chest.

He didn’t know what Elias thought he was, who he really was. Whether Elias already knew that he’d been a lover seeking cover in the very place that made his love dangerous, or whether he still saw Tim as just another quiet monk peacefully living in a state of total devotion. 

He wasn’t going to admit to anything and give himself away if Elias didn’t already know. So he made a decision and hoped.

‘I don’t know, Father.’

Elias placed an elbow on his desk and rested his jaw in his palm, eyes heavy lidded and unreadable to Tim. 

‘Why don’t you guess, Timothy?’

Perhaps Elias knew full well, and just wanted Tim to pick his own noose. 

‘Are you going to admonish me?’

That was only an admittance to a minor misdemeanour. If Elias was going to shout at him, he was sure he would have begun already. But Tim was not going to play Elias’ game and tell him what he was sure they both already knew. 

It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair that he was going to die for his love of Martin  _ after _ the man had ruined love for them. He would have gone willingly, before. Now he just wanted to scream, with anger, with loss, and with a true and selfish terror.

‘I don’t see a reason to admonish you, Timothy. Do you?’ Elias finally answered, before immediately posing yet another question. Tim wasn’t sure how to proceed safely, so he decided to proceed honestly.

‘No, Father.’

‘Then why would I admonish you? Have you done something wrong, Timothy?’

‘I haven’t.’

Because that was something Tim did know. He hadn’t done anything wrong, he’d only broken the rules, and he would be made to suffer for that, and he was scared. But he knew that he had not done anything wrong.

‘Then why do you think you’re here to be punished?'

Tim couldn’t answer. His throat worked but there was nothing he could say. He would never admit what he’d done and have a hand in his own death. He would never, ever, confess his love, lost as it was now, like it had been a sin.

It seemed Elias finally took pity on him, and decided to tell Tim why he was here.

‘Timothy, I’ve asked you here because it’s time I select someone to run this monastery after I’m gone, and you’re my first choice.’

Tim gasped, aloud. Elias smiled, and Tim couldn’t quite believe this was not some form of trap.

‘I’d like to confer with my  obedientaries and see them thoroughly convinced of my decision. I simply want to ask you a few questions, give an impression of you to them so that they know who you are before you take over.’

Tim was shaking. He couldn’t quite believe he was still safe, never mind favoured or even powerful, now. 

Behind him, Jon finished taking down the last of Elias’ words, and Elias was looking at Tim expectantly.

He broke into a wide, nervous smile, and shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘What do you want me to say?’

‘Ideally, you’d say yes.’

Tim felt giddy. He laughed, still in shock.

‘Yes! Yes- I just- why? Why me?’

Elias tapped his jaw with his index finger, thoughtful. ‘We can discuss that after. I have questions for you, first.’

Tim nodded again, serious at once. Elias' smile was fixed in place and he began the first of a few questions.

They were all about discipline, and as Tim found himself proving that he knew how to weigh up crime with punishment, Tim thought about discipline. He’d come here expecting to be discovered, punished, killed, even, and now he was proving that he was worthy of wielding that same power. It wasn’t fair, but that didn’t seem so reprehensible now that the great weapon of power was in his hands rather than at his throat. He hated himself for the thought.

‘In my experience, love tends to lead more of the faithful away than greed or laziness. Those can be frightened out of nearly anyone, but love flourishes alongside terror.’

Tim nodded enthusiastically before he tempered his expression. Elias narrowed his eyes infinitesimally before he continued.

‘Say one of the monks had been leaving the monastery to visit the town, and had fallen in love. How would you react?’

Tim thought. It would be a huge scandal, one that could see the monk and whatever lover he’d taken in serious trouble.

‘I would expel the monk and encourage him to marry her. Only God can judge any more than that, I believe.’ He answered, hesitantly.

‘Very good. It is not our place to act as tyrants. The monk would have to be dismissed, but no, you’re quite right, there’s no reason to take it further than that.’

He paused and let Jon catch up, the unceasing sound of writing filling the silence as Elias waited and Tim stayed quiet.

When the sound of writing died down, Elias steepled his fingers and leaned forward. 

‘As a bishop, advising our nobility actually takes up more of my time than running the monastery itself. One matter I deal with more than any other is divorce. How do you feel about divorce?’

Tim kept his face still, still as he could, as he collected his thoughts and failed to recall that the vows he’d taken with Martin were not marital, even if they were unbreakable. He cleared his mind of the man yet again, and carried on.

‘It’s against the law.’ He said simply. Elias looked disappointed in him for the first time.

‘That wasn’t what I asked. I’m aware of the law, I want to know how you feel about that.

Tim couldn’t help his deep sigh. ‘Father, in truth I think it’s unfair, but I can keep my questioning to myself.’

Elias’ face was unmoved.

‘When you have a sobbing royal, confessing to you that he no longer loves his wife, and wishes they could part amicably and find love again, what are you going to tell that man?’

Tim was highly sceptical that anyone who lived that far above the law really cared, and he was fully aware that the sobbing noble in question likely had a retinue of lovers to fuck as he pleased, wife be damned. No one had their eyes on the nobility, no one put _ their _ hearts under lock and key. Remarriage was difficult, but when you could shove your lawfully wedded wife in some castle and love whoever you pleased, in privacy, safely assured that no one could hurt you for it, Tim did not see what any royal could possibly complain about.

So it was with the frustration of his parting with Martin that left them still working together, eating together, sleeping together in one bed in a hall containing many other beds and every other monk in the monastery; separated from him but unable to  _ leave _ him, it was with that anger that Tim answered, ‘I don’t know, Father, what  _ would _ you tell that man?’

Elias’ face split into a smile and he laughed, a rare jewel cracked from a rock. Then he stood up, and walked over to him, coming to a stop. Tim was frozen. 

‘You wanted to know why I wanted you, Tim, and this is why.’

Tim didn’t move a muscle, not even to flinch as Elias adjusted the hem of Tim’s cowl, pointlessly smoothing it down. Tim’s pulse rocketed at the touch, feeling it through three layers of fabric. 

He hadn’t had those soft, spontaneous touches for a long time, every second with Martin spent looking over his shoulder for someone who would spot them, go to the Abbot, murder them with a word.

There was no one to look around for when it was the Abbot who leaned in so close, held his stare without fear, who traced his fingertips over Tim’s collarbones for no reason at all. Tim tried to hold onto the contact mentally, impress the sensation into his mind, unsure of when he might be touched again, at least touched on purpose.

‘Because you’re humble enough to say that you don’t know something. You don’t make any pretences, do you?’

‘No, Father.’

‘You’re very honest, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, Father,’ Tim lied. 

And the way Elias lit up, Tim knew that Elias knew too. It felt a little more like an inside joke, now though. Perhaps that was just the closeness speaking. Perhaps someone choosing to be so near to him rather than tolerating the circumstances they were forced into was enough for Tim to almost forget that Elias was responsible for those circumstances.

The thought should have dulled the sharp edge of Tim’s desire. Instead, face to face with the man he could blame for his life’s disintegration, Tim had to dig his fingernails into the heel of his hand to stop himself from reaching out and pulling Elias’ hand back to his chest when Elias began to withdraw.

‘You’ll need  _ your _ kind of honesty when you’re talking to the royals.’ 

He stepped closer, and Tim didn’t flinch, didn’t move, didn’t breathe.

Tim didn’t know what to expect, but it wasn’t Elias placing a hand on his shoulder, and near kissing the shell of his ear. He hissed like he’d been struck, but remained in place as he felt the touch as deeply as he possibly could.

He could almost, almost, feel Elias smile so close to his face.

‘I think you’ll be perfect, Tim.’ He whispered, just loud enough for Jon to write that down. Just quiet enough for Tim to hear Jon’s slight, subtle intake of breath. If either man turned around to look at him, they’d see him flushed and dry-mouthed and mortifyingly envious. 

Elias didn’t need to look to know that, though.

Tim shivered deeply, and nodded, just hoping he might catch against Elias’ face.

Instead, Elias pulled back, and Tim breathed out, painfully disappointed and unable to fathom why. 

Tim shook himself and focused again when Elias wandered off somewhere behind him. Tim didn’t turn around to look. 

Elias was rooting around a carved wooden chest, and he pulled out an item Jon couldn’t see to note down. Jon noted down the action anyway, just in case. And because noting small observations like that felt just a little bit safer than writing nothing and watching unrestrainedly. The thought of one of them catching his eye terrified him, the thought of disrupting the steps of the dance Jon could recognise taking shape.

So he kept his head down and noted whatever he could feasibly justify as important.

Later, he would try rationalising the sentence he spent on Tim, facing the empty desk so tensely, while Elias walked behind him. 

It was easy for Tim to grit his teeth and screw his face up with the frustration of inexpressible desire. And if Tim didn’t know better, he would guess that was why Elias paced back around in front of him, where Tim couldn’t ignore him. 

Elias leaned on the desk for a moment, as if just taking in Tim’s attempts to tame the look on his face. 

Then placed a small green bottle of something beside him on the desk, and tapped the stopper twice with the metal of his ring. The following silence was filled with the now constant sound of writing, which Tim didn’t care about, because his eyes were fixed upon that small green bottle.

Tim recognised that bottle of olive oil. It used to be a regular purchase from the weekly fair.

Elias cocked his head to one side, head tilted back as he leaned weightless against the desk, one hand still on the bottle. One look at Elias’ face told Tim that Elias knew exactly what that oil was for. And he knew Tim knew too.

There was only the slightest distance between Elias and Tim, and he could see how Tim inclined towards him so slightly, like he was leaning into a fire on a cold day. Elias smirked, and took Tim’s hand, a purposeless act, totally unnecessary, and Tim had missed it so, so badly. He wondered then whether Elias had a life before, just like him, if he missed it, if he had everything he could need and yet still wanted, just like him.

Or whether Elias had found everything he could want in the monastery.

Maybe Tim could too.

Then Elias pulled Tim towards him, falling slightly against the desk, and the distance shrank to inches between them. Tim had done this before, been this person once, he knew this and he knew what this was but he couldn’t focus, couldn’t even think.

He didn’t have to. 

He put his hands on Elias’ waist and tipped them both back onto the desk, chest to chest, hungry hands exploring. Elias snaked his fingers up into Tim’s hair, brought his face down and Tim kissed him. It was a ruthless act, open mouthed and starving, lips bruising lips, the bite of teeth against him and the scratch of nails down him. A thick moan escaped him, and Elias snarled against his mouth, shoved him back to standing, hard.

Looking up at him, his expression dark, Elias still smiled at him with his teeth bared, and Tim realised however wild he felt, there had been no slip in control. The power was right where it always was, and Elias delicately pinched the fabric of Tim’s sleeveless robe.

‘Off.’ He instructed, voice clipped and tight.

And Tim took two fistfuls of the garment and yanked the clothing up, over his head, and threw it over his shoulder. He surged forward, dizzy with desperation to touch, feel, kiss again in case he was never kissed again, but Elias held him back.

Tim made a sound like something wounded, confused, but Elias pulled at the drawstring on the front of Tim’s underwear, letting them fall. Tim nodded, kicked the undergarment far away behind him, and then tried to return to Elias’ arms. Once again, he held him back, reaching for the bottle of oil, and Jon wasn’t sure if he was meant to stop writing. 

Jon knew if Elias wanted him to leave, he’d simply dismiss him, it’s not like he’d forget. And if Tim wanted him out, Jon knew that he was brave enough to tell him if he was brave enough to fuck the Abbot. He evaluated whether or not he wanted to leave, forget what he’d seen and never think on it again.

He wanted to stay. 

The stylus was still against the wax page at last, and Jon simply watched as Elias poured the oil into his palm, slicking the lubricant up and down Tim’s dick, perhaps lingering on the touch a little longer than necessary, just to watch Tim shift under Elias’ touch and try to fuck his hand. Elias cooed, to Tim’s shame, which burned sweetly, before he withdrew his touch. 

Tim whined, disappointed until he saw Elias pour the oil on his own two fingers, lean back on the desk and spread his legs wide, and work himself open with a challenging smirk on his face.

Tim stroked himself while Elias stretched himself for him, but the sight was overwhelming if he wanted to get to fucking Elias. So he looked back at the scribe on hearing the faintest sounds of writing again. 

Jon jumped, and Tim could see how he held the tablet like a shield.

‘Why’s he writing?’ He asked Elias, eyes still fixed on Jon.

‘I imagine he wants a memento.’

‘What’ll you do with that, after?’ Tim gestured towards the tablet.

‘Depends on if it’s good. If so, I’ll be keeping it. Otherwise, he can have it. He won’t share it, that’s for sure, he wouldn’t dare.’ Elias looked over at Jon too, then, and Jon nodded, as if he needed to assure them.

‘Fine then.’ Tim said nonchalantly, as if the idea didn’t appeal to something he couldn’t quite name.

‘Good.’ 

Elias roughly grabbed Tim’s hips, and positioned him against himself.

Tim took one last look at Elias’ face, still so curious and faintly amused. With a rush of adrenaline, he had some idea of fucking the look right off his face, destroying his composure, so he pushed himself in, inch by inch, with practiced ease. He bottomed out without much diversion, eager to start in earnest. 

Just as he was beginning to draw back to set a pace he could keep up easily, Elias narrowed his eyes.

But saying nothing, Tim kept it up, moving in and out and feeling the pleasure he’d been yearning for begin to build.

‘Slow down, Tim.’

Tim’s hips faltered, and he slowed to what he felt was a torturous drag of his hips, in and out.

‘I  _ said _ slow down.’

Tim stopped altogether, examining Elias’ face for discomfort and finding nothing but his unshakable decorum and ironic smile.

‘If you carry on like that, you’ll be finished before we’re started. Have some self control.’

Tim nodded, deferent, and tried again, trying to temper that ferocious need to chase the high. He’d never done it like this before, and Elias tutted, as if unaffected.

‘You don’t even know how to control yourself, do you?’

Tim shuddered, and shook his head, giving in to whatever game Elias was going to play with him.

Elias pushed himself up to sitting, barely gasping as he readjusted the cock inside him, and instead focused on Tim. He took his jaw in his hands and tilted his head up, and stared him down.

‘You’ll let me take over, won’t you?’

_ He already has _ , Tim thought, almost bitter, almost afraid. But that need, need was an engine driving him on and it was undeniable.

So he nodded, once, catching Elias’ lips on his, his hips stuttering forward on instinct.

Elias put his hand in Tim’s hair and made a tight, punishing fist, pulling his hair hard and pulling Tim’s face back far enough for Elias to look at him again. Tim moaned, shocking himself.

‘I asked you a question.’

‘Yes, yes, please, just do it for me-’ 

Elias’ kiss was deep, and Tim gave in completely.

Elias kept one hand on the desk to keep himself upright, and used the other to guide Tim, holding his hip tightly. Then, so slowly Tim could barely feel the movement, Elias began to pull him in deeper. 

The urge to rip Elias’ hand from his hip, pin both his wrists high above his head and fuck him into the desk until it broke beneath them, the thought of the sounds Elias might make, the satisfaction, he could cry for it.

But he’d done that a hundred times before, once upon a time, and this was new. He’d never been able to fuck so slowly, so openly, and he realised that this was how the fearless might make love. How could he fear tyranny when the tyrant guided him? 

Elias sighed in satisfaction.

‘Isn’t that so much better?’

The words Tim tried to form were warped beyond recognition, and Elias laughed airly, only slightly raggedly.

‘Not for you, obviously, but that’s alright.’

The words were teasing, said so mockingly, and Tim fell forward like his strings had been cut. Elias licked a stripe up his neck. Tim hissed in pleasure, and felt Elias slowly, painfully slowly, begin to push Tim’s hip back for the backthrust.

‘How does it feel?’ Elias asked, so aware of the answer on Tim’s mind and eager to see whether he had the heart, or articulation, to say it out loud. To make it more difficult, he slowly, still so slowly, pulled Tim back in again.

‘Feel like I’m some s-sort of- of- toy,’ he gasped through the constant stimulation wreaking through him.

‘Oh.’ He gasped, understanding. Elias laughed lightly, just a little, and rubbed his thumb over his cheek, trusting Tim to maintain the agonizingly slow pace he set. 

His trust was well placed, and he traced his thumb over Tim’s lip. He parted them, and Elias stuck his fingers in his mouth, letting Tim suck them eagerly. 

Then Tim managed to brush up against a certain spot deep inside him, and Elias went rigid, and silent. He ripped his fingers from Tim’s mouth, and braced himself on the desk. 

‘Tim?’ Elias’ voice was steady. ‘Tim, can you fuck me exactly like that?’

He’d done it before, once. Regularly. The thought sent a spasm through him.

‘Definitely.’

‘Tim, fuck me, now.’ He ordered.

Tim held Elias down in place, two hands on his hips, and Elias felt fragile beneath his weight. Then he locked his legs around Tim’s waist, and squeezed, pulling him against that spot inside him that could draw an unruly whine from Elias’ lips.

Maddened, Tim fucked into him as if out of control. It felt like his body was catching fire, and the burn drove him forward again and again, the rhythm punishing, Elias collapsed onto his forearm, and caught Tim by the neck with his other hand, near crushing his throat. 

Tim leaned over him, not breaking his pace for a second, hitting that spot with every thrust. Elias’s chest heaved, back hitting the desk as he went pliant under Tim.

‘Good, good, Tim, don’t you dare stop now, such a good boy for me, you’ll do so well,’ the litany of praise strung from Elias, as Tim panted, the pleasure of friction, the closeness of release, both almost painful and he drove his hips into the feeling.

‘Elias,’ he moaned.

‘Don’t you dare,’ ferocious and concentrated at once. Elias shot up to meet Tim, clung to him, clawing deep, deep marks down Tim’s back and he screamed through gritted teeth, clenching around Tim and he couldn’t hold back any longer.

‘ _ Elias _ ,’ he warned, voice roughening, fingers curling to claws at Elias’ hips. He blindly fumbled for Elias’ cock under his robe, and pumped it hard, stroking him through his orgasm, while his own struck him like a blow.

Elias held on tight enough to hurt, every inch of him tense and then, finally, finally, undone with a deep groan of pleasure, coming into the folds of his vestments as Tim came inside him. Tim was pleading into his neck, and then he was still and silent, and holding onto Elias just as Elias held on to him. 

When he could bear to move, Elias pushed at Tim’s hip and he pulled out. He stood up, and Elias followed him, letting his robe drop back down and covering his body when it had been exposed.

‘Did you, please tell me you-’ Tim started, and Elias interrupted him with a kiss.

Tim melted against him, and when Elias finally released him, he collapsed boneless onto Elias’ shoulder. Elias lifted Tim’s head by the jaw, placed a few slow, deliberate kisses against his cheek down to his neck. 

Over Tim’s bare shoulder, Elias caught sight of Jon, tracing his hand over the page in lines, writing without even knowing he was. He was still and silent, stunned and so obviously, blatantly hopeful. It was that kind of look that sparked Elias’ appetite, his appetite and his imagination.

And Tim seemed to be attempting to chase away the passionless months with kisses and friction. He might not yet know, but Elias could see that he was going to work himself back up again like that. 

So he swivelled the chair at the desk he’d put out for Tim and never offered him, maneuvered and fell bodily into the chair. Tim eagerly followed Elias to his lap, straddling him without a second thought, chasing the sweetness he found in Elias, and Elias granted him all the touch he could want.

Though Jon didn’t quite catch that he was writing, his observations were marked into the wax; the way Elias’ ring glinted on his hand, gripping Tim’s hip, guiding him back and forth on his lap. The way Tim leaned forward into Elias, the strain in Tim’s back as he dug his fingernails into Elias’ shoulders, and stifled a moan that sounded through the still air anyway. 

Elias drew Tim in closer, trailed his hand on Tim’s hip to the front, out of Jon’s view. Tim’s body jolted, over sensitive, and Jon was rooted to the spot. He wanted to move, see exactly what Elias was doing, but he wasn’t entirely sure he was even meant to be here right now, whether he was meant to have taken his leave and forget what he’d seen.

Tim was panting and biting back smaller, voiced sounds and jerking his hips before Elias withdrew his hand, brought it to Tim’s waist, up his sides, torturously slow. Elias leaned in and whispered something in Tim’s ear, something Jon couldn’t hear even as he inched forward in his chair trying to make it out.

‘Yes,  _ please _ ,’ Tim’s voice was wrecked, rough and lower than Jon had heard it. It was like being struck by lightning. Jon bit his lip and held back a noise that might disturb the scene playing out before him. Instead he wrote a sentence on the sound of Tim’s voice, the curve in his back, the sharp lines of his forearms clutching the back of Elias’ chair, and the swell of his shoulders.

Elias hummed his approval and kissed Tim deeply, one thumb pressing on his cheekbone, fingers splayed across Tim’s face, his other hand tightly gripping his thigh to stop Tim from chasing the friction he now needed.

Just as Jon thought that granted this glimpse, he could sit and watch and write forever, Elias finally pushed Tim off his lap, and Tim dropped to his knees. Elias didn’t move his hand from Tim’s face. Tim looked as devotional as anyone else in the church, but he was naked, and his face was flushed and his lips were bitten red from kissing. His neck and chest were marked with a myriad of reds and purples, and Jon noted it all down, determined to preserve the moment in wax.

‘Jon,’ Elias called, and Jon froze. 

He had never felt so caught as he did in Elias’ gaze. He went weak, lightheaded as his heart raced.

The clatter of the stylus on the stone floor was tinny in Jon’s ears. 

‘I’d best take that from you,’ Elias was in front of him now, and reaching for the tablets. 

Wordless, Jon offered him the tablet, and Elias quickly regarded the surfaces. He quirked a smile, knowing, and Jon realised he hadn’t been forgotten for a second. He shrank back in his chair, terrified and hopeful and barely able to hear over his pounding heart.

Elias stalked back over to his desk, and set the tablets down next to the candle. For a second, Jon thought he might sit at his desk and begin to read, ignoring Tim, still kneeling, hard again, and digging his fingers into his thighs to keep from touching himself. 

Instead of sitting at the desk and beginning to work, as Jon feared for a second, Elias leaned on his desk and tangled his hand in Tim’s hair. He strained for more contact, and Elias pulled hard. Tim gasped, the muscles between his shoulder blades went taut and his ass lifted before Elias went back to gently stroking his hair, and Tim dropped back on his heels.

Without the tablets to note these observations on, Jon was just watching, staring just for the sake of intrigue and undeniable desire. Helpless to beauty, Jon stared at Tim’s back from the edge of his seat, and did not know what to do to avoid making a fool of himself under Elias’ scrutiny. 

Because when he wrested his gaze from Tim, he looked to Elias for any indication of what he was meant to do. 

He only found Elias’ amused gaze trained on him.

Then Elias nodded him over. 

Jon was walking to Elias’ desk before he could think about what he was doing. He stood too close to the other man, and had to look up to meet his eyes. He didn’t dare move back. He didn’t want to look away.

Elias slowly reached for Jon’s shoulder, telegraphing his movements. Just as he was before mass, Jon was struck with the realisation that he could turn away, run. He could forget it all, return to his old life, copy law and never think of this evening again. He could go.

He didn’t want to. Elias’ touch was feather light, but he turned Jon around so he faced Tim, and pulled Jon against his own body. The hardness against his back, the breath at his neck, and the sight of Tim, kneeling before him; Jon reached behind him for the stability of the desk, one arm either side of Elias’ body.

‘You look so intently,’ Elias told him, buried in the crook of his neck. Jon’s breath was shallow. He nodded, it was undeniable that he looked at Tim, it was impossible not to.

‘But do you want him?’ 

Elias’s voice was low, and barely louder than a murmur. Tim couldn’t hear. Jon knew he could say no, end this, and leave freely, without even causing offence at least until later.

But he did want Tim, and Elias, and he was not going to run from a chance like this when it was offered.

He nodded, and Elias laughed into the skin at his neck.

‘Out loud, please Jon.’

Jon cringed. 

‘Yes,’ his voice was aspirant in his own ear. 

‘Can I-’ Tim began to ask, composure and resolve beginning to crumble.

‘ _ Yes, _ ’ Jon begged again.

Tim shot forward, then paused with his hands at the hem of Jon’s bliaut, at his ankles. He looked up, waiting for permission, and Elias smiled on him.

‘You may.’ Elias granted, skimming his hand up and down Jon’s side, over his chest and down his torso, acclimatising him to touch. The pleasure of it was something piercing, and Jon was holding back embarrassing noises before Tim had even lifted the skirt of his bliaut past his knees. 

He pushed the silk half way up Jon’s thighs, lush with hair, and couldn’t resist raking his nails up the outer side, leaving reddened lines on Jon’s dark skin. Jon’s muscles tensed visibly, and Tim grinned against the tender flesh, before he sucked a wine-dark bruise on Jon's inner thigh, nudging Jon’s legs apart. Jon writhed in Elias’ grip, found his hand on the table and gripped for all he was worth as Tim teased him. 

‘Tim,’ he groaned, as Tim felt the muscles in the back of Jon’s legs quiver.

‘Need something?’ He asked, almost innocent if it wasn’t for the fact he was killing Jon like this.

‘Need y-you-’ Jon choked out, before Tim took pity on him and hiked his bliaut over his waist. Elias took the gathers of fabric and held them up, so Tim could work on Jon’s boxy undergarments. 

‘Good enough,’ Elias assured him, giving Tim permission to move on. 

Tim hooked his fingers under the waistband, and mouthed up the lace-up front. Jon stiffened, tension pooled in his abdomen and he tightened his grip on the desk behind him, feeling Elias’ flanks on his inner arms, Elias’ mouth at the crook of his neck. 

Tim took the draw string in his mouth, and undid the bow with his teeth. Jon’s braies fell around his ankles, and his heart beat against his ribcage.

Tim put his hands on Jon’s hips, pushing Jon back against Elias, who held the bliaut’s skirt taut to his body, pulling Jon in and keeping the skirt out of Tim’s way so he could watch over Jon’s shoulder. 

Tim experimentally flicked his tongue over the head of Jon’s cock. Jon made this punched out noise that made Tim smile. He looked up at him with his big brown eyes, and without breaking eye contact, took Jon’s dick in his mouth and sank a couple of inches down.

Jon threw his head back on Elias’ shoulder, and moaned unrestrainedly, pleasure radiating through his body.

‘Is this your first time?’ Elias asked, almost disparagingly. Jon opened his eyes, shocked that the embarrassment only deepened that hot feeling building in him. 

Jon hummed an affirmative sound that broke when Tim began to bob his head. Tim made eye contact with Elias, glowering down at him as he worked another lovebite into Jon’s neck. Deliberately, Elias pulled off from Jon just to let out an appreciative whistle. 

‘You’re very lucky, he’s extremely good at that.’

Tim moaned deeply around Jon and the vibration shot through him. He whimpered trying to hold back, and Elias snaked one hand from Jon’s waist to his throat. Jon spasmed in Elias’ grip, and Tim gagged.

‘Pull his hair, Jon,’ Elias instructed.

It took Jon a few times to form words when the things Tim did to him reduced him to incoherent sound. ‘I- that’ll hurt-’

Elias slid the flat of his hand against Jon’s scalp and made a fist, pulling tightly on his dark hair. The shock of pain drew out something close to a shout, and the surprise sweetened to more pleasure. Jon’s eyes rolled, and he struggled for purchase.

‘See,’ Elias crooned, ‘I really don’t think it’s so bad. You’re very naive, Jon.’ 

Elias took one of Jon’s wrists, squeezed tight and pulled Jon’s hand to Tim’s head. 

‘Go on,’ Elias encouraged, and Jon looked down at Tim. He held still, letting Jon feel for the length of his hair and take what he could. The scrape of his nails against Tim’s scalp felt good, and he rewarded Jon with another deep, vibrating moan against his dick, deep in his throat, encouraging Jon’s weak thrusts.

No longer bracketed by Jon’s arms on the desk, Elias slipped away from under him, ignoring the press of Jon’s ass against him, and let Jon fall against the desk. Tim threw his arms around Jon’s waist, and Jon quickly steadied himself again and buried his hands in Tim’s hair, desperate for more. Elias took Jon’s face in his hands, appreciated his slack mouth and wide eyes before he leaned in to kiss him, smothering the stream of moans and feeling them on his lips instead. 

The kiss was wet, filthy, and Jon was sweet about it. He startled at the feeling of Elias’ tongue, his parted lips lax, his eyes still wide with surprise. Elias sucked Jon’s lower lip in his mouth, and nipped slightly. The moan Elias elicited was strangled, so he growled, and found Jon’s nipple and pinched to make him cry out properly.

Jon bucked and convulsed in Elias’ grip. He knew exactly how close Jon was. Elias seized Tim by the hair and pulled him off Jon’s cock. 

Jon’s orgasm ripped through him, the helpless moan falling from his lips as his body shuddered and shook like he could pull himself apart. 

Elias held Tim in a vice-like grip, holding him in place as Jon came, come streaking Tim’s face.

Tim finally let Jon’s skirt drop back down to his ankles, and Jon prised his eyes open. He looked down and saw Tim, caught in Elias’ grip, face still tilted up at Jon. For a second, Tim looked like a trophy held up for Jon’s inspection, and Jon didn’t know what to do. 

For a second, Tim wondered if Jon might walk out. Tim had seen desire sicken once fulfilled.

Elias looked down at Jon, amused by his stunned expression. 

Jon shut his mouth, and swallowed. Tim followed him, and massaged at his aching jaw. He pulled his fingers away upon feeling the mess made of his face. 

Instinctively, Jon took a swathe of his draping sleeve and pressed the inside of the cloth to Tim’s face, wiping it gently, gauging Tim’s reaction.

Tim melted into Jon’s hand and sighed contentedly.

Jon cradled him as best he could, but exhausted, he dropped to the floor in front of Tim, and wordlessly cleaned his face.

Eyes closed against Jon’s wrapped palm, the sight of Tim stirred something in Jon. Tentatively, he kissed Tim’s cheek, and felt the smile against his lips before he pulled back and saw it. In that moment, he was pierced. Tim was something radiant, something shining, and Jon couldn’t look away. 

Then Tim placed his hand on Jon’s, before he skimmed it up his forearm slowly, squeezing just below his shoulder.

‘Kiss me?’ Tim asked, brown eyes all imploring. Jon fell into him, against Tim’s bare chest, felt Tim’s strong arm around his waist and kissed him tenderly. Tim’s body was warm, and he was steady, and Jon lent his weight upon him without hesitation, deepening the kiss. Tim felt for Jon’s hand, and put it to his chest, letting Jon feel him. 

Tim brought Jon’s hand down his body, slowly at first, and Jon realised how much he’d been wanting, how much he’d been depriving himself for a lifetime. How much he’d wanted to touch. Tim became urgent as he led Jon’s hand lower, at first savouring the drag of Jon’s fingertips over his skin, but soon tormented by need. Tim let go of Jon’s hand, cupping his face instead, and Jon closed his fingers around Tim’s dick. Tim pulled him in for another kiss, but gasped as Jon pumped his loose fist up and down Tim’s shaft. 

‘Faster,’ Tim breathed. Jon obliged him, finishing him quickly. Tim burrowed his face in Jon’s shoulder and Jon caught him in a kiss when he brought his face up.

Elias watched them for a few minutes, but let the two of them be while he prepared some mead and clean clothes. From the larder, Elias listened in as Jon and Tim’s talk finally lifted into giggles. He turned his eye to them through a crucifix, and watched them kiss through the afterglow. 

He almost hated to interrupt, especially as Jon startled back from Tim. But Elias took the opportunity to sit in the space Jon created between himself and Tim, and he offered them each a cup of mead. They drank in silence, shy and spent. Tim put his head on Elias’ shoulder, so Elias put his arm around his waist, and pressed a kiss to Tim’s forehead. He smiled, and shut his eyes. 

He looked over and Jon was watching over the rim of the cup, cross legged and looking, left out. Elias made a slight beckoning motion to Jon, who curled up against him. He kissed Jon’s forehead too, and felt the man unwind against him, any worry that Elias might turn against them faded as Jon allowed himself to sink into Elias’ side and feel calm.

His god and his future, both resting in his arms. It had been a long time since Elias had felt affection so deeply, and he heaved a sigh like a creature sorely wounded . He held them both tight, and felt Tim reach for Jon’s hand over Elias’ chest. He took it, and their intertwined hands stayed right there.

They dozed together until the fire burnt low and Tim, still naked, started to shiver. Elias supplied him with the clean robes, and they drank their mead before they got up and lingered at the door, unwilling to end the night at all.

Jon made some gesture towards leaving, but Elias shook his head.

‘There are bandits in this town, and worse. I’ve heard some terrible things in confession, Jonathan, I’d hate to see you out in a night like this.’

Jon thought that most of them probably shared the room in the inn with him. He’d probably slept beside the worst of them. He didn’t like how that sounded, so he stayed quiet and turned to Tim to avoid Elias’ slight grin.

‘I agree with Elias, you should stay here tonight.’

He rubbed at his eyes. The study was warm. He wanted to lie down. Outside would be so cold, so dangerous, so unnecessary. So he nodded, and fell back into Elias’ side.

‘Don’t let the roundsmen catch you, Tim.’ He murmured.

‘I know, I know, I won’t, I’m the best.’ Tim was weary, and unwilling to leave knowing he would be returning to the dormitory. To Martin’s side. 

Imagining what Martin would think as Tim snuck back into bed so late, at least, sent him a thrill of satisfaction.

So, with a last kiss goodbye, Tim slipped out into the dark corridor and Jon thought that would be the end of the night.

Instead, Elias poured another cup of mead.

Jon gave him a look of unrestrained curiosity, and Elias shrugged. ‘It’d be a shame to cut the night short.’

Interest piqued, Jon agreed and put the cup to his lips. Elias settled on the single cushioned chair in the study, and Jon settled in his lap, bringing his cup with him.

It truly was a good mead, and Jon told him so.

They chatted about the bees in the courtyard for a little while, and as the alcohol unspooled Jon’s tight control, he probably complimented every single detail in the room from the beeswax candles to the ring on Elias’ finger. Elias laughed at that, said he’d never thought about it before. Without thinking, Jon took Elias’ hand and brought the ring to his lips, peeking over his lashes at Elias’ bemused, pleased face.

The firelight was dim, their chatter muted and light, and Jon was just savouring the feeling of contentment when Elias suddenly tensed. Jon was about to ask what was wrong, when the knock on the door shattered the peace in the room.

Jon jumped to his feet, and Elias pointed him to the small larder, where they ate breakfast this morning. Jon dashed there, and Elias called out to whoever was at the door. 

It was the roundsmen, dragging Tim in tow. He twisted his wrists in their grip, but they held him fast. 

Elias’ face was stone.

‘We found him skulking around the west wing, your excellency,’ the first roundsman said.

Elias sneered. ‘Oh dear. It’s been a long time since I’ve suffered truancy in these halls, Timothy.’

‘Yes, Father.’ Tim forced out of gritted teeth.

‘And he was cowardly, your excellency, he tried to run before we saw his face, but we got him.’

‘As I can see. Timothy, what do you have to say for yourself?’

The air itself flinched at the question, and the answer was pulled from Tim before he could gild it.

‘I was with you-!’ he began, before cutting himself off with horror.

The roundsmen laughed, and Elias arched an eyebrow, letting the pause linger.

‘Hm.’ He considered, slowly. Tim was confused, and shocked, and could do nothing but wait while Elias deliberated. 

‘Ten more for lying, I think. Tell me, Timothy, how many is that?’

‘Twenty,’ he breathed. The thought of it made his head spin. Elias tutted, and shook his head.

‘Thirty,’ he corrected. ‘Your disobedience is only indicative of your greater flaws. Your deceit and your cowardice shame you as surely as your failure to follow rules. Perhaps when you’re punished for your faults, you shall improve.’

Tim flinched back, hurt to the core, unable to free himself of the roundsmen’s clutches. Elias’ grin was wolfish. He got up from his chair and drew near. They were almost eye to eye before Elias stopped in front of Tim, looking down at him ever so slightly.

‘Timothy,’ he started, and Tim couldn’t look away. ‘You will be  _ grateful _ once you realise what I’ve done for you.’

Tim made a face, and so Elias petted his cheek lightly, then stepped back, appraising the picture of frustrated fear Tim made. Satisfied, he turned to the roundsmen.

‘Take him to the dormitory, and ensure that he makes it to bed.’ Elias turned his back on Tim and the roundsmen.

‘Yes, your excellency,’ the roundsmen said in unison, and Tim made a despairing sound that punctured Jon from where he hid in the larder.

Certain they were gone, as he was watching from a painting in the corridor, Elias called out to Jon.

He crept out, looking betrayed. Elias gave him a hard look.

‘I couldn’t help him.’

‘You didn’t have to be so cruel!’ Jon reprimanded.

‘What did I do that was cruel, Jon?’ Elias sounded tired as he slumped back in his chair.

‘You shouldn’t have spoken to him like that!’

Elias nodded. ‘How do you think they’d treat him if they thought I favoured him, Jon? I mean it. I couldn’t help him. He’ll understand, sooner or later, I’m sure of it.’

Jon still wasn’t convinced. 

‘Thirty sounds excessive.’ He protested. ‘Thirty what? What are you going to do to him?’

‘Oh,’ Elias’ face lit up, and Jon was confused because he looked so pure in his delight. 

‘Nothing he won’t like,’ Elias promised sincerely.

So Jon drank his mead and crawled back into Elias’ bed and pulled the arms around him tighter, but all that sweetness was bitter in his mouth as he worried. 

And he slept as soundly as he did when he shared the bed with strangers and criminals, and tried to make up his mind about which one Elias was. 

He did know that he intended to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terminology- 
> 
> obedientaries were high ranking monks in the monastery who advised the abbott as well as running their own departments  
> Armatory - the obedientary running the scriptorium was responsible for directing everyone writing there, and for providing all the resources and materials
> 
> I think they make a good comparisons

**Author's Note:**

> Maundy Thursday by Wilfred Owen
> 
> Between the brown hands of a server-lad  
> The silver cross was offered to be kissed.  
> The men came up, lugubrious, but not sad,  
> And knelt reluctantly, half-prejudiced.  
> (And kissing, kissed the emblem of a creed.)  
> Then mourning women knelt; meek mouths they had,  
> (And kissed the Body of the Christ indeed.)  
> Young children came, with eager lips and glad.  
> (These kissed a silver doll, immensely bright.)  
> Then I, too, knelt before that acolyte.  
> Above the crucifix I bent my head:  
> The Christ was thin, and cold, and very dead:  
> And yet I bowed, yea, kissed - my lips did cling.  
> (I kissed the warm live hand that held the thing.)


End file.
